Ekkehard Volume Ii Part 17

A servant came down with some lights, which, being surrounded by linen, saturated with oil, burned brightly and steadily. The air was mild and pleasant.

Burkhard the cloister-pupil, was still sitting contentedly on his stool; his hands folded as in devotion.

"What does our young guest think?" asked the d.u.c.h.ess.

"I would gladly give my best Latin book, if I could have seen the giant Asprian, das.h.i.+ng the lion against the wall," replied he.

"Thou shouldst become a knight, and go out to conquer giants and dragons thyself," jestingly said the d.u.c.h.ess.

This, however, did not convince him. "But we have to fight the Devil himself," said he, "that is better still."

Dame Hadwig was not yet inclined to go indoors. Breaking a twig from the maple-tree into two unequal pieces, she stepped up to Ekkehard. He started up confusedly.

"Well," said the d.u.c.h.ess, "you must draw. Either you or I!"

"Either you or I," vacantly repeated Ekkehard. He drew out the shorter piece. It slipped out of his hand, whilst he silently resumed his seat.

"Ekkehard!" sharply exclaimed the d.u.c.h.ess.

He looked up.

"You are to relate something!"

"I am to relate something," murmured he, pa.s.sing his right hand over his forehead. It was burning and inside it, was a storm.

"Ah yes--relate something. Who is going to play the lute for me?"

He stood up and gazed out into the moonlit night, whilst the others looked at him in mute wonder, and then he began in a strange, hollow voice:

"'Tis a short story. There once was a light, which shone brightly, and it shone down from a hill, and it was more radiant and glorious than the rainbow. And it wore a rose under the headband ..."

"A rose under the headband?" muttered Master Spazzo, shaking his head.

"... And there was once a dusky moth," continued Ekkehard, still in the same tone, "which flew up to the hill, and which knew that it must perish if it flew into the light.--And it did fly in all the same, and the light burned the dark moth, so that it became mere ashes,--and never flew any more. Amen!"

Dame Hadwig sprang up, indignantly.

"Is that the whole of your story?" asked she.

"'Tis the whole of it," replied he with unchanged voice.

"It is time, for us to go in," proudly said the d.u.c.h.ess. "The cool night-air produces fever."

She walked past Ekkehard with a disdainful look. Burkhard again carried her train, whilst Ekkehard stood there immovably.

The chamberlain patted, him on the shoulder. "The dark moth was a poor fool, Master Chaplain!" said he compa.s.sionately.

A sudden gust of wind, here put out the lights. "It was a monk," said Ekkehard indifferently, "sleep well!"

CHAPTER XXI.

Rejection and Flight.

Ekkehard had remained sitting in the bower for a long time after the others had gone away, and when at last he also rose, he rushed out into the darkness. He did not know whither his feet were carrying him. In the morning he found himself on the top of the Hohenkrahen, which was silent and deserted since the woman of the wood had left it. The remains of the burnt hut, formed now but a confused ma.s.s. On the place where the sitting-room had once been, was still the Roman stone with the Mithras. Gra.s.s and ferns were growing on it, and a slow-worm was stealthily creeping up on the old weatherbeaten idol.

Ekkehard burst into a wild laugh. "The chapel of St. Hadwig!" he cried, striking his breast, with his clenched hand. "Thus, it must be!" He upset the old Roman stone, and then mounted the rock on the top of the hill. There, he threw himself down, pressing his forehead against the cool ground, which had once been touched by Dame Hadwig's foot. Thus, he remained for a long time. When the scorching rays of the mid-day sun were falling vertically down, he still lay there, and--slept.

Towards the evening he came back to the Hohentwiel, looking hot and excited, and having an unsteady gait. Blades of gra.s.s clung to the woolen texture of his habit.

The inhabitants of the castle, shyly stepped out of his way, as if ill-luck had set her seal on his forehead. In other times they used to come towards him, to entreat his blessing.

The d.u.c.h.ess had noticed his absence, without making any inquiries about him. He went up to his tower, and seized a parchment, as if he would read. It happened to be Gunzo's libel. "Willingly I would ask you, to try the effect of healing medicine, but I fear that his illness is too deeply rooted," was what he read. He laughed. The arched ceiling threw back an echo, which made him jump up, as if he wanted to find out who had laughed at him. Then, he stepped up to the window, and looked down into the depth below. It was deep, far deeper than he had imagined, and overcome by a sudden giddiness, he started back.

His eye now fell on the small phial which the old Thieto had given him.

With a painful recollection he thought of the blind old man! "Serving women is an evil thing for him, who wishes to remain in the paths of virtue," he had said when Ekkehard took leave.

He tore the seal off and poured the water from the Jordan over his head and eyes. It was too late. Whole floods of holy water will not extinguish the inward fire, unless one dives down, never to rise again to the surface. Yet a momentary feeling of quiet came over him.

"I will pray to be delivered from temptation," said he. He threw himself on his knees, but after a while he fancied that he heard the pigeons swarming round his head, as they did on the day when he first entered his chamber. Only they had mocking faces now, and had a contemptuous look about their beaks.

He got up, and slowly descended the winding staircase to the castle-chapel. The altar, which had often witnessed his former earnest devotions, was a safer place for him, he thought. The chapel was as it had always been, dark and silent. Six ponderous pillars with square capitals adorned with leaf-work, supported the vault. A faint streak of daylight fell in through the narrow window. The depth of the niche in which the altar was placed, was but faintly illuminated; the golden background of the mosaic picture of the Redeemer alone shone with a soft glitter. Greek artists had transplanted the forms of their church ornaments to the German rock. In white flowing garments, with a golden red aureole round his head, the Saviour's lean figure stood there, with the fingers of the right hand extended in the act of blessing.

Ekkehard knelt before the altar-steps; his forehead resting on the cold stone flags. Thus he remained, wrapt in prayer. "Oh thou, that hast taken the sins and sufferings of the whole world on thyself, send out one ray of thy grace on me, unworthy object." He looked up with a fixed stare as if he expected the earnest figure to step down, and hold out his hand to him.

"I am here at thy feet, like Peter, surrounded by tempest, and the waves will not bear me up! Save me, oh Lord! save me as thou didst him, when thou walkedst over the raging billows, extending thy hand to him and saying 'oh, thou of little faith, wherefore dost thou doubt?'"

But no such sign was given him.

Ekkehard's brain was giving way.

A rustling, like that of a woman's garments, now became audible, but Ekkehard did not hear it.

Dame Hadwig had come down, impelled by a strange impulse. Since her feelings for the monk had undergone a change, the image of her late husband recurred oftener to her inward mind. This was but natural. As the one receded into the background, the other must come forward again.

The latter reading of Virgil had also its share in this, as there had been said so much about the memory of Sichaeus.

The following day was the anniversary of Sir Burkhard's death. With his lance and s.h.i.+eld by his side, the old duke lay buried in the chapel below. His tomb was covered by a rough stone-slab. A sarcophagus of grey sandstone stood near it, resting on small clumsy pillars, with ionic headpieces, which again rested on quaint ugly stone-animals. This stone coffin, Dame Hadwig had had made for herself. Every year, on the anniversary of the Duke's death, she had it carried up, filled with corn and fruits, which were distributed amongst the poor,--the means for living coming from the resting-place of the dead. It was an old pious custom.

To-day she intended to pray on her husband's grave. The reigning twilight concealed Ekkehard's kneeling figure. She did not see him.

Suddenly she started up from her kneeling pasture. A laugh, soft yet piercing struck her ear. She knew the voice well. Ekkehard had risen and recited the following words of the psalms:

"Hide me under the shadow of thy wings. From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compa.s.s me about. Arise, o Lord, disappoint them, cast them down." ...

He said it in an ominous tone. It was no more the voice of prayer.